Western Short StoryHE-WHO-DOES-NOT-SINGJ. R. Lindermuth

Western Short Story

The
bear rose up before him and the boy fell back on his rump. For a long
terrifying moment, the grizzly stared down on him with its small,
red-rimmed eyes and He-Who-Does-Not-Sing thought his pounding heart
would tear out through the flesh of his chest.

Then,
after what seemed an hour but must have been no more than seconds,
the bear grunted, shook its head as though saying you
are not wortheating,
sank down on its forepaws, turned and was gone into the tall grass
from which it had erupted. He-Who-Does-Not-Sing didn't move. He sat,
smelling the musky odor the beast had left behind, feeling the wet of
the slaver it had flung against his face and body when it shook its
head. Slowly, his breath returned to a normal rhythm as his heart
slowed its palpitation. Perspiration mingled with the bear's slaver,
dripping off his face and running down his bare chest.

More
time passed before he was finally able to rise and cut a trail away
from the direction the grizzly had gone. He moved at a quick pace,
moving higher and higher until he was certain he'd left the bear's
territory behind. Only then did he stop to rest, climbing atop a
boulder from which he had a good view of the valley below. He
harbored a fear the beast might be following him, though he told
himself it had already shown it had no interest in a skinny boy who
hadn't yet earned a man's name.

He
was a boy, just entering his teens. His people were called
Issiometaniu,
Ridge Men, because they preferred to live in the mountains unlike the
other bands of those who later became known to the world as Cheyenne
and roamed the great grasslands to the south.

He-Who-Does-Not-Sing.
His grandfather had given him the ridiculous name. He wrinkled his
nose and snorted. He didn't like people calling him this. Everyone
used it now. It had replaced his childhood name. Of course he didn't
sing. When he did, his voice cracked and people stared at him with
amusement. The girls laughed, and that was worse.

He'd
complained to his grandfather. The old man told him to be patient.
When he joined his first war party he would have opportunity to earn
a man's name.

The
boy had been told his father had been a great warrior.
He-Who-Does-Not-Sing didn't remember his father, who had been killed
by the Pawnee when he was still a baby. His mother had married
another man who often beat her and the boy. He preferred to spend as
much time as possible with his grandfather, who told him good stories
and assured him one day he would be a warrior to make his father
proud.

It
embarrassed him, but he had begged Dog's Brother to let him join the
small band he was leading into Ute territory. Dog's Brother was only
a few years older than He-Who-Does-Not-Sing yet he had already been
admitted into the Hoof-Rattle society after counting coup against a
Pawnee on his first raid. At first Dog's Brother had laughed at him
and called him a baby. Then Scabby-Face spoke up for him, saying even
children deserved a chance to prove themselves. Dog's Brother
relented. He had his chance.

Dog's
Brother had organized the war party in the proper manner. First he'd
invited those he wanted to join him. He fed them and outlined his
plan. He'd taken a pipe to the medicine man and got his blessing.
They'd readied their gear, painted and stripped for action, sang wolf
songs and received gifts from those who wished them well. It had been
exciting and He-Who-Does-Not-Sing had been proud to be included. He
thought one girl in particular had even smiled at him.

But
things had not gone as they hoped.

There
were only seven of them, none out of his teens, and they'd set off on
foot. Some had questioned Dog's Brother on the wisdom of this. He
promised they would have Ute ponies to ride home. Maheo
was with them. If they brought back many horses they too might be
invited to join the Hoof-Rattle or, at least, the Coyote society.

They
proceeded cautiously, Dog's Brother sending out scouts every morning
in search of sign--people, horse dung, campfire smoke, anything to
say they were near their quarry. Every night in their camps along the
way, Dog's Brother encouraged them. They smoked, prayed and sang war
songs. Even He-Who-Does-Not-Sing joined in. He was too happy to worry
about his crackling voice.

But
it was a long and exhausting journey and they had used up most of
their arrows before they encountered the Ute. Rather than a settled
camp, they stumbled onto a Ute war party. They were outnumbered and
when the boy saw his friends being slaughtered, he ran.

And
now he was alone, lost and ashamed.

For
the next few days, the boy hid--dirty, scared, consumed with
guilt--and prayed Maheo
would protect him from pursuers and show him the way home. He still
carried his bow, but had no arrows.

One
morning he awoke and saw the sun rising in the east. This helped him
decide the way he needed to go and it made him happy. He felt
confident he would soon be home and safe, though he still didn't know
how he would bare his cowardice when he faced his grandfather again.

Mid-afternoon
on that day, He-Who-Does-Not-Sing caught the scent of wood fire on
the air. Could he be near home, or might it be an enemy?

He
crept on hands and knees and then on his belly like a snake as near
as he could to the source of the smoke. A creature sat by the
fireside, roasting deer meat on a spit. He-Who-Does-Not-Sing had
never seen a creature such as this. It was huge, like nahkohe.
But it was not a bear. Nor was it the monster called Two-Face, for as
far as he could tell this creature had only one face. The lower part
of its pale face was covered in hair. On its head was a cap made of a
skunk's hide. The monster's body was cloaked in the skins of other
animals. And the creature was singing, singing in a guttural tongue
the boy could not understand.

His
stomach rumbled with the pleasant scent of the roasting meat. The
monster must have heard this faint sound, for it rose now, bending
and peering with red little eyes like those of a bear, trying to find
the source of the noise it had detected. The boy gulped air. The
creature strode toward him. With a cry, He-Who-Does-Not-Sing leaped
up, ran forward, smacked the creature on the chest with his bow,
darted around it and kept running.

Behind
him he heard the creature bellow with laughter that sounded almost
human.

He
ran until he could run no farther. He didn't know if the creature
followed, but he didn't wait to find out. As soon as he'd recovered
his breath, he continued on.

The
next morning he entered territory which seemed familiar. In the near
distance, smoke rose above the trees. He was focused on that smoke
and the thought of home or he might have noticed another figure
hurrying to catch up to him. So it was a shock when he heard his name
called. He swung around. "Rabbit?"

The
other boy ran up and flung his arms around He-Who-Does-Not-Sing. "I
thought I was the only one they didn't kill," he whispered.

"Did
you see the monster?"

Rabbit
wrinkled his brow. "Monster? I saw no one until I came down the
hill and saw you."

Thinking
it might have only been a dream inspired by his fear, the boy said
nothing more about his experience as he and Rabbit proceeded home.

It
was only later, in the warm comfort of the family teepee and after
several bowls of his mother's bison stew, thickened with succulent
slices of red turnip and milkweed buds, that he told grandfather of
his encounter with the creature.

The
boy was puzzled when his grandfather began to laugh after hearing the
tale.

"That
was no monster you saw," the grandfather said, patting him on
the knee. "though it is a creature we try to avoid. What you saw
was a ve'hoe'e,
and you were very brave to have counted coup on him. You have earned
a man's name."